#drarryland

Hey so I've only ever done this one other time and I really don't know what the proper etiquette here is. If I'm coming across as rude, I'm so sorry, someone please let me know if that's the case. Thank you so so much.

I'm writing a Drarry fanfiction and I was hoping to ask for an art piece for the cover. I would absolutely keep your watermark and meet any other requests you have. I would credit you and only use the art for what you've given me permission to use it for. I love all of you guys and would love love love a drawing for my fic. I feel so bad asking but I can't draw for shit (yet I continue to write). Thank you so so very much!

Title: It Only Takes One Dance

Rating: G 

Word Count: 688 words 

Tags: Fluff, Humour, Dancing, Flirting

Summary: Draco accidentally agrees to a dance with Harry at an official Ministry function and it's not long before he realises that he's not that angry about it.

Notes: This was written for a Drarryland prompt, though not for points. The prompts can be found over on @gameofdrarry.

First prompt for the @gameofdrarry

This was supposed to be a normal day. She’d meant to go to the library after breakfast to study, mind you, not handling her best friend panicking over a weirdly shaped birthmark suddenly appearing.

“So, please tell me again, step by step, what you did last night before going to bed.”

Harry sat at a chair opposite her, niggling at the edge of his thumbnail.

“I already told you,” he said wearily, “when I left the common room I went straight to my dorm and went to bed.”

“And you didn’t touch anyone on the way?”

Harry dropped his hand and blinked several times. “Who would that be? I only share a dorm with Dr-, with Malfoy, and let me tell you,” he laughed, but Hermione heard the strain, “I think I would have remembered it if I had been… touching… him… yesterday,” he continued, trailing off as the person in question entered the library. Malfoy flinched as he saw the two of them, then promptly turned and fled, blushing furiously.

Hermione turned to Harry again, narrowing her eyes. Harry was once again niggling at his thumb but was now pointedly looking anywhere but at her.

“Harry,” she said, using the sweetest voice she could while stifling a laughter, “why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

No, it wasn’t, she tells him. It was an experimental curse, she tells him. As far as they can tell designed to heighten all senses until the recipient is incapacitated from sensory overload, she tells him. It should go away on its own in a few days, and after she takes another blood sample, Harry will be free to go home, she tells him. He might want to stay indoors until everything is back to normal, she tells him.

”Fuck,” Is the only thing Harry says. And then, “God. Okay. Please don’t tell my husband.” The nurse snickers. “Don’t tell my husband, he says.” 

-

“Don’t tell your husband, you said?” Draco asks when he walks into their room that night, furious and leaning heavily on his cane. Harry can hear every stilted step, the padded bottom of the cane thumping against the floor, Draco’s hip bone creaking where it was blown to pieces in 1998. “You ask the nurses not to tell their boss that his husband arrived unconscious again? I’m the only Curseologist in the country! I was the one who looked over your test results to find out what had happened! You should know better.”

It feels as though the reprimand is playing through speakers placed inside Harry’s eardrums, turned up to eleven, Draco’s voice louder than he has ever heard it. He grimaces and clutches the sheets next to his body, but it’s too much, the feel of them against his skin, and he has to let go.

“Love, can we not right now? I’m kind of—“

“Harry James Potter, look at me right now.” Harry groans before opening his eyes, because he knows what’s coming. Bright light floods his sight, and he can feel the muscles of his irises contract, his pupils closing and closing and closing until they’re nothing but a dot, a freckle, a hint of black in a sea of green. Draco leans over him, the corners of his mouth turned down. A whiff of his cologne washes over Harry, the faint scent of St. Mungo’s antiseptic. He can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones, can see the curve of every individual eyelash, see the tiny, nascent hairs on his chin. “I will always find out when you’re hurt. After 16 years, I thought you’d know that.” “I do. I do know that.” “Good. Glad we’ve settled it. I’m really tired and my hip has been acting up again, please scoot over.”

Harry sighs. “Okay, give me a second,” and begins the tortuous journey to his side of the bed, wanting to cry out at every brush of the covers against his naked skin.

-

It’s not until the next morning that he finds, fascinated, what hearing enhancement truly means.

The chirping of the birds outside his window is so loud that it’s as if they were right next to him, hopping around his bed. He can hear someone mowing the lawn a few streets away, the wooden floors of the first floor living room clicking and expanding as the cool night gives way to a warm morning, the hum of their muggle fridge engine, the buzz of the bees circling the flowers in their garden, Draco’s heartbeat loud and clear, Draco’s blood, as it runs through his veins.

He keeps his eyes closed, tries to see through sound, tries to block out every scent he catches, everything he can feel, and focus on what he can hear. Children laughing, the neighbors chatting at the end of the street, a dog barking.

Draco’s heartbeat picking up, just a little, his blood running faster as he shifts in his sleep, nearing consciousness. He hears the rustling of the sheets as they brush against the fabric of Draco’s jumper, which is in fact Harry’s, the green one he got for Christmas thirteen years ago. He hears the weight of the jumper shift, can almost picture it riding up, revealing Draco’s soft tummy. He learns to identify the sound of the thick yarn Molly used to knit it as it moves with Draco’s every breath, as his chest expands and contracts with it.

He hears the rush of air as Draco breathes in and out and understands, just then, that this is exactly what home sounds like. His husband, mellowed with sleep, with the years, sleeping peacefully next to him, wearing Harry’s clothes.

A sigh escapes Draco’s lips. An “I know you’re awake,” scratchy, mumbled, but so loud it resonates in every cell of Harry’s body.

Harry smiles, and he hears that, too, his own heartbeat picking up in response to Draco’s voice, rising up to his teasing.

Yes. This is what home sounds like.

This is SO bad lol, but whatevs.

Prompt: A new nextdoor neighbour/roommate keeps singing very badly at all hours of the night. Must include the word "earsplitting" - Minimum: 450 words - Maximum: 1150 words.

~

“By god, it’s horrible,” Blaise mumbles.

Draco nods. They were stretched out on the sofa, halfway through Infinity War when the singing started.

Every single damn night. High and horrible and screeching, so bad that Draco wanted to knock himself out. Rock music, or some sort, echoing out from Harry Freaking Potter’s room. The singing seemed to reverberate all throughout the small dorm room that he shared with Blaise.

He winces. “By god, it’s everywhere. How is it everywhere?”

Blaise shrugs. “Pipes? Maybe they are singing in the shower, and it’s going through the pipes?”

Draco glares at him. “Who sings in the bloody shower for 2 goddamn hours?”

Blaise just rolls his eyes, snatching the popcorn bucket out of Draco’s hand.

He coughs. “I don’t know. But it’s driving me mad.”

“Agreed.” Blaise sighs. Draco kicks the carpet with his foot. “Pansy?” he asks.

Blaise gives a small, determined nod. “Pansy.”

~

“So.” Pansy purses her lips. “You want me to do what?”

Draco scowls at her over his coffee. “It’s goddamn awful Pans. You have no idea.”

“It’s horrible,” Blaise agrees, sitting down next to them. He dumps sugar and cream into his coffee, stirring it with the stick and Pansy frowns. “That’s your fifth cup?”

“No sleep,” Draco says, and Blaise nods. “Seriously, Pans, it’s agonizing. Horrible.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Can’t be that bad.”

“Try hearing it,” Draco mutters and Pansy straightens in her seat. “Are you insinuating something?”

Blaise frowns. He knocks back his coffee. “From Harry Potter’s room, of all places.”

Pansy smirks. “Harry Potter? That’s the guy Draco likes right?”

“Oh stop it.” Draco flushes, staring into his coffee. Pansy smiles at him, and he glares. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Pansy says, innocently.

“The look.” He shakes his head. “Fine. Come over tonight. Just listen to how bad it is.”

“Ooh, a sleepover.” Pansy shrugs. “Okay. I’ll come. But if you guys start banging, I’m out.”

~

The knock on the door sends them all flying up.

They’re all bleary-eyed, hair messy. The music had started about an hour ago, and it hadn’t stopped since.

“It sounds like someone is getting bloody murdered,” Pansy mutters. “Told you so,” Draco says. She hits him with a pillow.

With a sigh, Blaise stands, going over to unlock the door. “I swear, if it’s you Greg…” He trails off, at the sight of Theo standing on the other side. “‘Sup Theo?”

“The bloody music,” Theo growls. “It’s so damn loud in my place.” He steps into the room and winces. “Fuck. Not much better here either.”

“I’m going to kill them,” Pansy mutters. Blaise glares at her. “You haven’t even been in here for a night yet. Imagine this. Every night.”

“Ear splitting,” Theo mutters.

Draco sighs. “Look, can someone just...stop it?”

“Great idea, Draco.” Blaise winks. “You do it.”

He glares at him. “No! I’m not going to Harry’s room!”

“Voted!” Pansy calls from the couch. Theo nods. “C’mon Draco! You get to talk to your crush, and the music stops!.”

Draco swears. “I hate you all,” he grumbles, kicking the door open.

The screaming gets louder and louder as he moves down the hallway. It seems to be coming from a door to the left, trickling out from underneath the cracks, and Draco bangs on it. “Yo!”

There’s no answer, and Draco curses. He kicks the bottom with his foot, making it rattle in it’s frame. “Hello?”

He hears footsteps, the sound of the door being unlocked. A head full of red hair pokes through, Ron Weasley’s freckled face frowning down at him. “Why you banging on our door for, Malfoy?”

“What the hell?” Draco throws his hands up. “The bloody screaming.”

Weasley rolls his eyes, yelling over his shoulder. “Harry! Get your ass over here.”

There’s a load of grumbling, then suddenly someone’s head peaked over the edge of the door.

He was tall, messy hair and emerald eyes, glasses askew on his face. Draco had the strangest urge to straighten them and he coughs. “What the hell mate?”

Harry blinks up at him. “Sorry?”

“The fucking music!” He gestures with his hands. “It’s everywhere! All over the damn hall!”

“Oh.” Harry frowns. “Really?”

“Yes!” Draco swallows, hard. He blinks a few times. Damn it. Harry was hot.

The door creaks open a few more inches, and with a jolt Draco realizes that Harry was shirtless, a towel wrapped around his waist. He backs away. “Sorry, were you two - “

Harry gives him a grumpy look. “I was showering,” he says pointedly. “Had my Bluetooth speakers and everything.”

“Oh.” Draco clears his throat. “Pretty fucking loud speakers.”

Harry glares at him. “Didn’t realize they went through the pipes.”

“Okay.” Damn it, he was staring. He clears his throat again. “So, can you...turn it off?”

Harry looks at him for a second, then slams the door shut. Draco lets out a breath, turning to leave.

As he did, he heard Ron’s voice filter out. “See mate? Told you it would work! He was bound to come over, with all the music and look! Now you can ask him out!”

(Another one for Drarryland!)

March, 2005:

The chairs are squeaky and uncomfortable. The tacky wallpaper is peeling away. The light overhead is a gross shade of fluorescent white. The restaurant gets absolutely zero points for atmosphere, but that’s alright, because the food more than makes up for it. It’s ten o’clock at night, and they’re having an extremely late dinner. Draco was a bit annoyed about it at first, but Harry had suggested they eat here, and his prickly mood had dulled.

A bored waitress takes their order, and it’s only after she walks away that Draco realizes, “Wait, did the chicken have—”

“No, there’s no mushrooms. I already checked.” Harry smiles at him, and Draco relaxes. Mushrooms are evil little things.

The restaurant is small, and warm, and they talk about nothing for a little while. Draco’s stomach grumbles only once before the bored waitress returns, setting their plates in front of them. Harry thanks her, and Draco reaches over to transfer Harry’s tomatoes onto his own plate. Harry takes Draco’s asparagus, and they eat.

It’s a quiet evening after that, and when they climb into bed, they fall asleep with full stomachs, their limbs radiating calm.

***

November, 2005:

It’s Sunday morning. The clouds form a blanket in the sky, wrapping Draco in lethargy. He doesn’t want to get up, but Harry’s already out of bed, probably in the kitchen. So he drags himself up, rubbing at his eyes while walking down the stairs, stumbling only a little bit. When he gets to the kitchen, Harry is indeed there, mixing something in a bowl.

His feet are bare on the pale tiled floor, and his hair is flattened on one side. Wooden cupboards light up under the rays of sun that refuse to be smothered by clouds. Appliances, mugs, and letters yet to be opened are scattered among the bowls of fruit and knick knacks that cover the countertops.

Harry is humming, a tune that rises and falls as he steps away for a moment, bowl still in hand, to read the little post-its on the refrigerator door.

Draco walks up behind him, looks over his shoulder. Call Hermione, ask about the thing, written in Harry’s messy loops. He snorts under his breath, looks down, sees the pale batter and dark spots of chocolate chips. Plants a quick kiss on Harry’s jaw. “Good morning.”

Harry smiles. “Morning.”

Draco takes a couple more handfuls of chocolate and drops them into the bowl. Harry’s smile widens, and Draco walks over to the fridge, taking out a few eggs.

He may have a sweet tooth, but Harry’s preference has always been for savory.

Harry stands over the stove, pouring the batter into a skillet. Draco cracks the eggs in a bowl and whisks them. He washes and cuts some potatoes, grabs the package of bacon from the fridge. Harry plates the pancakes and starts on coffee, the machine bubbling and dripping away.

Draco takes Harry’s place by the stove, and cooks everything up in the same skillet, the smell of heat and breakfast mingling with coffee grounds and chocolate.

They sit down at the dining table. Harry adds two sugars and milk to one mug of coffee, only smirking a little, leaving the other black. They pass each other their plates, and eat as the sun slowly emerges from behind the clouds.

***

July, 2006:

The trees sway, a vibrant green against a clear sky. Butterflies are fluttering over the rose bushes. Their friends are spread out, talking amongst each other, sundresses and t-shirts flowing. Laughter permeates the air as children chase each other, falling on the grass. Summer colors; blue, yellow, pink, and the orange citrus sun, rolling in the sky.

Inside the house, Harry is helping Molly with the food. Mother is sitting next to Andromeda, watching Teddy try to catch a bird. Neville is helping Rose get dirt off her face, and Luna is talking to Blaise and Pansy about something confusing, if their bemused expressions are any indication. Various Weasleys are sitting on the porch, and because of the heat, Draco is showing far more skin than he would usually be comfortable with.

It’s not really the quiet birthday that Harry had originally wanted, but that’s alright, because everyone is here and everyone is content, breathing in the sunshine and the sounds of the season.

Hermione stands beside him and talks about her latest book-in-progress, Ron tries to eat all the biscuits, and Ginny teaches Victoire how to cartwheel. Harry and Molly come out with the food, letting the scent of celebration fill the air.

Everyone is here, at their house, in their backyard, sharing this moment. Harry comes up beside Draco, wraps an arm around his waist. They all sit around wooden picnic benches, and eat.

The grass tickles their ankles, the butterflies kiss their skin.

(You know you’re screwed when you have to use your first detention for your second Drarryland prompt)

Drarry | 340 words | Teen and Up | Serving Detention, Swear Words, Insulting, Bickering, (Almost) Fist Fighting, Enemies almost turning into not-so-enemies | Read on AO3

Written for the Drarryland game.

*

“You’re fucking stupid.”

“Excuse me?!” Malfoy spluttered.

Harry gave him a withering look. “You heard me right, you’re fucking stupid! Why did you have to—ugh, if you want to punch me, at least wait until Filch isn’t fucking looking!”

“Oh, excuse me,” Malfoy retorted, “How dare I ruin the Saviour’s plans for the evening? How very rude of me, indeed.” He scrubbed a spot from the tile more forcefully than was strictly necessary. “It’s not like I didn’t have anything better to do than be stuck with you with my hands full of—”

“Just shut up, will you?! I don’t care. This is your fault, I don’t want to have to listen to you on top of that.”

“My fault!” Malfoy spluttered. “You called me ferret!”

“You punched me!”

“Only because you called me a—!”

“Well you are one! A stinky, bratty, idiotic ferret!”

Harry rolled on his side when Malfoy launched himself at him, fists at the ready. Gripping his wrists, Harry kicked Malfoy in the stomach.

Malfoy yelped, struggling to get free. “Prick!”

“Twat,” Harry grunted, kicking him again.

Malfoy almost doubled over. “I—ughh, I hate you!”

“Well I hate you more!”

“No you don’t!” Malfoy yelled right in Harry’s face. “You don’t!”

Caught off guard, Harry hesitated. Malfoy freed his wrists from his grip, but Harry just stared at him as they both panted, neither making the next move.

“What—”

“Forget it,” Malfoy said. “Just—forget it.”

“No. What do you mean?”

“I—” Malfoy swallowed, a pale tinge of pink spreading down his cheeks to his neck. “You—you spoke in my trial. You said—things.” He frowned, looking away. “Look, let’s just—”

“No.” Harry sat up. Malfoy leaned back, startled, but Harry just sighed. “I spoke in your behalf because I don’t think you’re a criminal. That doesn’t mean I can’t think you’re an asshole and a ferret. You are.”

Malfoy huffed. “Prick,” he said, though with less sentiment than before.

“Twat,” Harry repeated.

“Imbecile.”

“Ferret.”

“You little—!”

This time, when Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrists, it was with a smirk.

*